Presidential Purchase

Presidential Purchase

Synopsis:
What will it cost? A novice journalist learns the scathing details of the former President of the United States’ deadly campaign for office. Dale Sorenson got the surprise call of his life. Former President Robert Manfield wants to detail his path to the presidency. The president infers there will be a golden nugget at the end of the trail so long as Sorenson agrees to inform the American citizens on the importance of this interview. Back in the woods of northern Wisconsin and under tight security, Dale meets with President Manfield. A series of discussions add more questions than answers as to what the president truly wants to reveal. Unknown to Dale and the president, as the story closes in on the PAC influence, the money, and the driving power of a successful campaign, a gun smolders at a nearby town. The gun does not act alone. The gun does not quit until the main target is found. The team directing the gun has deep pockets that will not stop without a successful mission.

Excerpt:
“How much will it cost?”
“Excuse me? What was that?” Dale asked.
Former President of the United States, Robert Manfield, shook his head to loosen the negativity, the doubt his situation created in his life. He refused to acknowledge any fear. He’d built his life, his existence, and his career on the possibility of creating a better world for everyone. The destruction of the environment of the United States, of the whole world, needed help and he was the only one willing to take the risk against the masses who denied the problem. The denials came from greed and ignorance. Robert Manfield would challenge his reputation and life to save what humans destroyed. “Nothing. I was thinking about what I need to tell you.”
Dale creased his brow.
The popping and snapping logs in the over-sized fireplace radiated tangible heat, yet the room held the coolness of relief. The already darkened evening left the outside lights to glow behind the closed curtain of the picture window to the left of the fireplace.
President Robert Manfield crossed one leg over the other, leaned back in the burgundy leather wingback, and placed his arms on the sleeves of the chair. The fingers of his right hand hung toward the blaze. The heat warmed his intuition.
“Why are you allowing this interview, President Manfield?” Dale Sorenson, a young journalist, sat upright with a cant toward the former president, looking anxious for his answer.
A thousand—no, a million—thoughts raced through President Manfield’s mind and attempted to alight on his tongue, yet he wanted to say exactly the right things in exactly the right order. It wouldn’t be easy. He’d prepared for this interview from the beginning.
He considered the Americans sitting in their living rooms. Some rooms grand and stuffed with expensive and untouched furniture and others with, alarmingly, one place to sit made of worn and faded threads, watching a soon-to-be-unforgettable story on national television or, in this day, on their smartphones and tablets. They would be told the reality of the America they claim to love, live, and fight for. They would know how the government was put together, who ran it, who paid for it, and who benefitted. Until he had made the change, it wasn’t a pleasant review.
Robert’s stare had drifted toward the curtains aglow in crimson until Dale Sorenson brought him back to his priority. “President Manfield, is there an answer to my question?”
Robert noted that the journalist truly wondered if he had an answer. Dale’s question wasn’t loaded with criticism, just curiosity.
President Robert Manfield had requested the discussion and had been particular about where and when it would take place. No cameras cramped the quarters. The journalist must be mystified by now, wondering why he’d been chosen and why it mattered where and when the information would get spilled.
Robert refocused on his interviewer, seeing a touch of naiveté circle Sorenson’s mild blue eyes. “I have a statement to make before I answer your first question.” Robert glanced at Sorenson’s pad of paper, mostly used for a list of prepared questions he could see, and indicated that the journalist might want to take notes. “First, I want to make it clear that I wholeheartedly retain the feeling that the United States of America is the country with the most freedom of the world to live in and to have the opportunity to work toward higher goals.” Robert paused. “You might want to take note of that.”
Sorenson scribbled on his pad, never taking his eyes from one of the formerly most powerful men in the world.
Robert Manfield appreciated Sorenson’s ability to learn fast. The president had a thorough check done on his choice of journalists.
Dale Sorenson came from what was left of the middle class, grew up in a two-parent family with three siblings, becoming a rarity due to the cost of raising a family, attended a local public school, played football without any accolades, dabbled with the trumpet for three years in the school band, and wrote for the school paper. After grade twelve, Sorenson attended the University of Superior-Wisconsin. The element that interested the president was Sorenson’s computer’s search history. The young blond man had more in mind than following the sheep.
“I’d like to tell you why I specifically requested you as my interviewer.” Sorenson dipped his head and chanced a brief half smile. “I picked you out of the throngs of reporters and interviewers not because you have the largest audience or because you have the most experience, but because of where you came from.”
Sorenson set his pen to paper, yet paused. Robert knew he created more questions with every word spoken.
Robert glanced at the fire while taking a deep breath. “This interview’s purpose is to let the people of the United States know that nothing is perfect. Albeit, this great nation can appear to be stronger in all or most factors than any other nation, yet I will lay out the deficient points.”
Sorenson’s eyebrows rose, then flattened in a flash.
“Don’t look so surprised. Wait till you hear the rest of my story.”
Sorenson reached into his satchel, fumbled for something, then stopped searching with his hand still deep in a pocket on the side. “Mr. President, would you mind if I record our conversation?”
Robert smiled, nodding. “I certainly hoped you would. Without a recording, you may miss or forget something. No offense, of course.”

****

Dale Sorenson wiped the sweat from his palm on the inside of his carry bag. He still didn’t know why he was the chosen one to get an interview with the first president to resign after one year in office, for no particular reason. Dale’s background was modest at best; nothing unusual.
Rumors had splattered the front pages of The New Yorker, The Post, the WSJ, Time, Forbes, and any other print in circulation. The most outrageous stories found their way to the gossip rags. At this point, who knew what constituted gossip versus truth. The reasons ranged from a chronic illness surfaced in the president, that the president was caught in contractual scandals, the president was an atheist and would be impeached, the president wasn’t fit for the position, the president had illegal contacts with other countries, to the even more ridiculous stating the president had ties with the mob, or had plans to send all business ventures to other countries while he looted the US Treasury.
No one had ever been given the real truth.
Dale had to keep his cool. He knew of a hundred or more reporters who had wet dreams about this interview. President Manfield hadn’t given any consideration to the thousands of previous offers to get his story. After a year of living in near seclusion on a one hundred and eighty-acre tract of land in the northern realms of Wisconsin and protected by security wires, security personnel and satellites, President Manfield had picked up his landline and called Dale.
Dale had thought the call had been a badly framed joke by one of his colleagues and had nearly made a fool of himself by cussing and hanging up. Yet, something about the tone and serious nature of the caller couldn’t be replicated by a co-worker or friend without a chuckle as a sure giveaway before a minute of air time passed.
With a wild thought of landing the big one, Dale had chosen to play the possible game. Into the second minute of the call, he thought he might expel the cold pizza he’d devoured minutes earlier.
Hardly convinced he had prepared himself, two weeks later, Dale sat in the president’s living room with a glass of water at his side. The curtained windows glowed because of strategically placed lights outside. He figured the president liked the looks of the black iron poles holding up plain silver spotlights to keep stalkers at bay. Not that anyone would get to his residence through the tangle of woods and winding half-mile-long driveway. Robert Manfield had his own set of leftover Secret Service staff to secure the perimeter. Well-known in the unincorporated village a few scant miles to the south, the secret stayed tight with the eight hundred residents.
Dale pulled out his phone to record and mentally commanded his hands to stop shaking. He couldn’t give up on his first question, or the president could take that as a signal to answer only the questions he chose. Dale wanted it all. With no intention of relaying his trembling nerves, Dale steeled his body for a breath. He relaxed, then asked, “Mr. President, why the interview?”